


Sherlock & John Shorts

by Snootiegirl



Series: The Great Detective and the Army Doctor [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cold Turkey, M/M, New Relationship, Quitting Smoking, Slash, kissing an ashtray, one shots, weaving around canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snootiegirl/pseuds/Snootiegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of One-Shots based on the relationship established in The Experiment and The New Experiment stories in this series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> First short establishes why Sherlock quit smoking cold turkey and why John was holding him to it in The Hound of Baskerville.

Right. That's it, I thought.

I pushed against Sherlock's shoulders and our lips parted with a little pop.

"I'm done," I said.

"Ok," Sherlock drawled out with a quizzical look.

"No, I mean. I'm done kissing you."

"That's what I thought you meant. Permanently?" he asked.

"Until you stop smoking. I don't like kissing an ashtray, Sherlock," I informed him.

He looked unhappy now.

"I'll make it worth your while," I offered with an outstretched hand.

"Cold turkey?" he clarified.

"Yes, no sneaking them in once in a while and then brushing your teeth a dozen times. I'm serious, I'll smell it on your skin and clothing too," I said, crossing my arms across my chest.

"Will you help me?"

"Of course, love. Let's start by getting rid of all of the hidden stashes," I replied.

I stood up and started sorting through the usual places.

"I should pay off the local vendors for a certain radius too," he offered.

"That's a great idea," I agreed.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the flat was the turning-out of every nook and cranny that held a cigarette. I was shocked how many there were.

"So the deal is I quit smoking cold turkey and you continue to kiss me and offer something else that 'makes it worth my while,' yes?" he asked again.

I looked at him.

"Agreed," I said and held out my hand. He took it in his, enveloping my smaller appendage.

"Let's seal the deal with a kiss too," he said.

But when he pulled me forward for a kiss, I protested.

"Oi!" I said. "You haven't even attempted to brush the taste out of your mouth from this morning's smoke."

He at least had the decency to look abashed.

"Now that you mention it, I think I'll have one last cigarette. Like a man condemned," he taunted me with a twinkle in his eye.

I sighed and slapped him on the rump as he swanned past me. The resulting yelp was very satisfying indeed.


	2. Beg for Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherock told Irene he had never begged for anything in his life. Hmmmm.

_holy shit, did he just say please TWICE? Sherlock Holmes just begged for mercy from one John Watson to allow him to smoke cigarettes, what should I do I don't want him to be bored but cigarettes aren't an acceptable alternative to boredom, and solving violent crimes is? oh, good, Mrs. Hudson is here_

_as soon as Henry leaves this flat, I am all over this man, he knows what the quick fire deductions do to me, and I did promise him something special to reward him for his cold turkey off cigarettes, what can we try today?_

_Like that, do you? Maybe this oh yeah I like that too what a view and oh oh oh oh oh what a sensation do it again and again again again again again again again again again . . . . ._

_I think I like him like this, incoherent, boneless, sated, recumbent, resplendent, unapologetically enjoying the fruits of his begging, maybe I've just taught this brilliant mind a thing or two about the benefits of the proper amount of humility, oh, wait, he's up and moving toward me, I don't like the look in his eye . . ._

_I guess Sherlock is right, I'll have to heave myself up and out of bed sooner than later if we're going to catch the train and be in Dartmoor in a timely fashion, i.e., before dark, but I'm so warm and comfortable, maybe I'll just snooze a little longer . . . . holy--all right, you great git, I'm up_

_I figured we'd have to rent a car in Devon, but I didn't figure that Sherlock would be so smug about driving. So I never learned to drive. I didn't need it living in London and then being a doctor in the Army, there was always someone else to drive me where I was going, sure, Sherlock, keep it up, there are plenty of things that I know how to do--doctor things--that you don't, don't flush, don't blush, reach over and place your hand just . . . there . . whoa! that was a close shave, that ditch came out of nowhere!_

_really? here? out in the open like this? where someone could come along and catch us? well, that might be fun, actually, although I'm not sure that a moor is really a comfortable place to recline and relax, especially within sight of a suspicious military base and a mine field, it's not like this is Afghanistan, for fuck's sake . . ._

_Beg me._


	3. Pulling Rank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know that little smirk Sherlock gave John when he pulled rank on the Corporal at Baskerville was a prelude to rank pulling elsewhere. Don't we?

"Say it again, John."

"On your feet, soldier."

"Yes, sir."

"Time for inspection."

. . . . .

"Head up. Eyes forward. What's your name, soldier?"

"Sherlock Holmes, sir."

"Holmes, huh? Sounds like a poof to me."

"Drop and give me twenty, Mister!"

. . . . .

"You call those push-ups? That glowing rabbit you were looking for today could do better push-ups than that! My dead grandmother could--"

"Mmmmppff--"

"Sherlock?"

"Don't stop!"

"Soldier, you better get up here onto your knees after that little display. In all my years in the Army, I've never seen a man like you. Knees apart. Hands behind your back. That's better. Now, since we're in a hotel, I'm going to give you some instructions as to volume levels."

. . . . . .

"All right. You will keep silent soldier. You will do as I say and hold your tongue--unless I tell you to use it otherwise. Is that clear?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Look at that jaw line. What if I give it a little tap. Huh? A little tap, tap, tap of my cock. Right there on those lips of yours. What would you say to that soldier?"

"May I have another, sir?"

"You may if I decide you deserve it. Right now, I think you'd look pretty damn edible with a little of my pre-come smeared across those cheekbones. What do you think soldier?"

"Sir, I would be honored, sir."

"Now that I have your attention, I'd like to say something I didn't get a chance to in the past two hours as you dragged me through a top-secret Army research base, showing more than a little disrespect for the structures and protocols that mean a great deal to me."

"John?"

"Silence! I will not participate in another escapade like today without a life-threatening situation in the balance. Is that understood, soldier?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Good, you can have another tap on the other cheekbone. Now open wide."

. . . . .

"See? Now I think that's a much better use of your mouth than lying to military personnel and rattling the cages of genetic scientists. Later on, we'll go speak to Henry again, and you will behave yourself. Or your punishment will be to stay on your knees and not have access to me. Is that understood? Good."

"I should really pull rank on you more often."


	4. Fear and Triumph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock speaks of fear and emotion after his first encounter with the hound (and chemical weapon). What if he was speaking about more than just that evening's jaunt out onto the moor?

"I'm afraid, John."

John rolled over to face his lover, tucking his hands together underneath his own cheek. Sherlock's eyes were very close to his and very wide. John couldn't help the desire to reach out and touch Sherlock. But he bided his time, allowing the man to say his piece.

"I've always been able to divorce myself from feelings. Emotions. But now my body's betraying me," Sherlock hissed. "I'm afraid. Of having you and not having you."

"Sherlock--" John began in his softest tone.

Sherlock clenched his eyes closed and rolled away from John, pressing the heels of his palms against his occipital sockets. John knew this was Sherlock's way to trying to get the outside world and the inside world to leave him in peace for simply a few moments.

He also knew that it was a rare occurrence when both worlds agreed to comply.

Instead of cluttering up the space between them with words, John moved closer to the pale, thin body practically shuddering with tension. He loosened his left hand and lightly placed it it over Sherlock's heart, feeling the racing pace. He pressed a little harder to keep from startling his skittish bedfellow.

"It's not a betrayal," John whispered. "It's a triumph."

Sherlock stilled at John's words. He lifted his hands away from his face and turned to look John in the eye. Deducing, thinking, searching his mind palace. Sherlock scanned John's face, skin, eyes, and mouth. John allowed the scrutiny as he always did.

"A triumph? This?" Sherlock asked with incredulity. John felt Sherlock's heart rate kick up even faster. His eyes narrowed to evil slits as he looked at the doctor.

"Sherlock, please calm down. You're going to have an anxiety attack at this rate," John coaxed him. John's hand slid up from Sherlock's racing heart to run through his disarray of curls. This action had always proven effective in the past.

This time, though, Sherlock wouldn't allow John to soothe him. He wrenched himself away from John and threw himself to his feet. His dressing gown swirled around him as he swept back and forth in the narrow room just past the foot of the bed. John sighed.

Ever since they had visited the Hollow, Sherlock had been acting off. And now he was throwing a fit (which wasn't necessarily unlike Sherlock), but his demeanor was frenzied. And his admission of fear? That was very unlike Sherlock. Worryingly so.

John sat up and allowed himself to watch the pacing for a few moments hoping the physical exertion alone would start to flood Sherlock's system with dopamine. His pace remained quick and angry until something seemed to go through him.

John was just about to ask Sherlock what had changed when the man himself turned on John and leap onto the end of the bed, tucking his knees underneath himself. He leaned into John's personal space, causing John to lean back to keep Sherlock's face in focus.

"What is it?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes once more. "You said triumph," he stated flatly.

"Yes," John agreed cautiously.

"You mean the triumph of my emotions over me? Of my reduction to this, this--" Sherlock stumbled.

John took pity on the man and reached out to place hands on both shoulders.

"I mean the triumph of our affection for each other over our stubbornness and selfishness. The triumph of communication over misunderstanding. The triumph of choice over fate. Don't you see, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head, mute.

John's face softened even more. He slid his hands from shoulders to cup Sherlock's head, fingers resting within the curls and thumbs rubbing from cheeks to ears.

"Your body is mirroring your emotions. You are reintegrating your emotions into your physical and mental life. You are becoming a whole person once more. The whole person you can be. The whole person I want to help you be," John explained gently.

Sherlock's demeanor deflated. He pushed himself up on his knees and collapsed next to John, pulling the other man down with him. They were again on the pillows facing each other as they had started minutes earlier.

"John," he said again, his voice laden with the emotions.

"Yes, love," John replied.

"I'm still afraid," Sherlock said, looking impossibly young.

"You don't have to be as long as I am here," John said.

And Sherlock smiled.


	5. His John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asked for Irene's phone when John came to tell him she was in 'witness protection'. But why did he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to change the chapter numbering on this to reflect a 'complete' state. This is, therefore, Chapter 5 of 5. However, that doesn't mean I won't write more shorts. It just more accurately reflects the fact that each short is compete unto itself and the overall 'Shorts' are technically complete at the end of each story.
> 
> Enjoy the new story!

"Please," Sherlock intoned. He needed to know. He couldn't deduce this for once.

John looked very doubtful indeed. His mind continued to plead _please, please, please, John._

John looked away, looked back at Sherlock. 

Shifted his weight slightly from left to right, an indication that he had made a decision. His hand slid within the plastic sleeve filled with paperwork and one camera phone.

The Woman's camera phone.

The phone that Sherlock had just asked John to surrender to his care. Sherlock had tried to keep his eyes on the table and scientific equipment in front of him, tried not to indicate how important this request was to him.

John looked very reluctant to betray Mycroft by making her file incomplete. If nothing else, spiting him was a good enough reason to ask for the thing. But there was a much deeper motive at work for him too.

The heft of the phone was the same as he remembered. But it wasn't that which he craved.

"Thank you," he intoned and placed the camera phone next to him on the table, savoring the brush of John's fingers against his as the plastic object had been deposited in his palm. The tingling in his own fingers stayed with him as he placed the hand back at the adjustments for the microscope, fine-tuning his view of the unseeable.

John shifted and turned, shuffled and looked uncertain. Sherlock could read all of that without lifting his eyes. His ears deduced that John was uneasy about something. Perhaps John was uncomfortable with the convenient lie.

"Did she ever text you again after all of that?" John asked.

"Once, a few months ago," Sherlock replied, keeping his tone bored.

"What did she say?" John had to know.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

That seemed to satisfy John's conscious for some reason. He finally turned on his heel and descended to the street to return Mycroft's file to him.

Sherlock lifted his head from his eye piece as soon as John departed. He was satisfied his question had been answered.

John had given Sherlock the phone. He had responded to Sherlock's plea. He had chosen Sherlock above policy, procedure, King and country, and even Mycroft (as if there had been a doubt there).

Sherlock was John's priority. It was what he had needed to know. And when the Woman had abruptly reared back up into their lives again, Sherlock had taken the opportunity to prove to himself again that he had John's heart.

It was a little thing. He knew cognitively that John was besotted by him, and Sherlock might be persuaded with enough alcohol to admit the same infinite devotion. But matters of the heart, as Sherlock was learning, were not as easily soothed and placated.

Sherlock tucked the camera phone into a drawer next to his desk. It's symbolic power was diluted by John's gesture. Sherlock didn't really need it anymore. But he would keep it in case there were hard times--arguments, separations, misunderstandings.

When John returned to the sitting room, he found Sherlock still at the windows. He entered the room hesitantly, as if it weren't his home. As if her were unsure of his position there.

Sherlock spun quickly and strode to the shorter man. He enveloped John in an embrace that evacuated the breath from both of their chests simultaneously.

"Oof, ok," John managed to get out with the escaping carbon dioxide. His arms had automatically come up around Sherlock's back after their chests had met. Sherlock buried his nose behind John's ear.

After a full minute, John jostled Sherlock and moved to extricate himself from the hug. Sherlock reluctantly moved back to meet the beautiful blue eyes.

"Are you really that upset?" John asked, worry and unhappiness lingering between his eyes and around his mouth.

Sherlock searched John's face. Then he broke out his softest smile, slowing drawing John's as well. He carefully caressed John with his eyes, warming the olive skin and smoothing the wrinkles and lines.

"On the contrary, I am very content," Sherlock told John.

"Happy for her, huh?" John confirmed, a note of resignation in his tone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes (just a little).

"No. It's nothing to do with her. It's you, John," Sherlock assured him, running his hands up and down the length of the ex-Army doctor's warm back. God save him, he loved these thick jumpers. On John, of course.

"Me?" John said, eyebrows nearly meeting in his hairline.

"I only asked for something that wasn't yours to give to see if you would," Sherlock told him, peering from under the fringe of his hair, suddenly shy.

John considered this as his eyebrows traveled back down toward his eyes again. "Something that wasn't mine to give," he repeated. "Something that you wanted and that I could provide. But it was a risk to give. Is that it?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered as he bent to lay kisses along John's neck. After a series from jaw collar bone, he murmured, "I would give you the sun and the moon if they would make you happy, John."

"Hmmm," John replied with enjoyment under Sherlock's ministrations. "And I you, love," he assured.

Sherlock began walking John backward toward their bedroom, and John allowed him to do so.


	6. Penis Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a serious discussion about dicks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little short is in no way meant to judge men, their bodies, or their attitudes toward them. I simply wanted to see how John and Sherlock would discuss, noun, 'penis'.
> 
> I figured Sherlock would start off with the social aspect of 'the guys' joshing about their members. And he would assume John would have all the answers, wouldn't he? Some of this conversation was a surprise to me as well.
> 
> Hope you enjoy my exploration.

"Sometimes I don't understand men's relationships with their penises," Sherlock announced.

John looked up from his newspaper. That was a non-sequitur par excellence.

"Right," John cleared his throat and squinted at Sherlock. "What?"

"Their penises. They are simultaneously enamored and petrified of their own body," Sherlock (sort-of) clarified.

John leaned on his elbow.

"Hygiene issues, you mean?"

Sherlock gave John his best _You're lucky I love you because that was a stupid thing to say_ look.

"No, I don't mean that at all. I mean that heterosexual men have a complex relationship with the male member," he retorted.

Sherlock was currently standing in the kitchen clad in his pajamas and third-best light blue dressing gown, safety goggles over his eyes (present from John), with his Bunsen burner on high (not a present from John). He was melting something in the grip of some forceps, and the dripping was picking up speed as Sherlock diverted his attention from his experiment to his partner.

John was sitting in his chair (of course), enjoying a cuppa (double of course), and currently trying to figure out how he had gotten himself into this conversation.

_Oh, that's right, I sexed myself into it._

John smirked to himself and pulled his newspaper back up in front of his face.

Truth be told, John was thrilled to have such interesting, if unusual, conversations with Sherlock. The way the man's mind worked was an irresistible puzzle to John.

"Go on," he prompted. Was that even necessary, he wondered.

Sherlock was suddenly right in front of John's chair. He put a long, elegant hand over the text John was currently skimming ( _how did he know which article I was reading?_ ).

John looked up into those stormy eyes.

"You don't believe me," Sherlock pronounced.

"No, it's not that," John assured him. "I'm just not sure I care about how heterosexual men view their penises. The only view I care about is right there." John pointed delicately in the general direction of Sherlock's groin.

Sherlock sighed the sigh of the put-out. Then he flounced into his chair, goggles and all. But at least he had left whatever the experiment was in the kitchen.

John liked small, every day miracles.

"Think about the last time you went to the pub with your _mates_ ," Sherlock said, pronouncing 'mates' as if the very word was poisonous.

"Okay," John said, gamely.

"Dick jokes, slang, 'don't be a dick', 'you're such a dick,' 'I'd put it in her,'" Sherlock spat out with his version of John's rugby and Army friends' voices and accents.

John tried very hard not to laugh at him.

"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock asked with exasperation.

"Yes. Yes, I do. We joke about our 'dicks' all the time. I get it. So that's the fascination. What's the terror?" John said. He furrowed his brow.

"Add one openly and flamboyant gay man to that crowd. And what's the reaction?" Sherlock prompted again.

John thought about it for a moment. Most of his buddies were pretty open-minded and accepting of people of all walks. Especially his Army buddies. But there was one guy in particular that he brought to mind. A new bloke who had just joined the rugby team a few months prior.

He sometimes got on John's nerves because of the _volume_ of his 'dick talk'--both loudness and depth. John just just shrugged it off though. His other mates were great guys.

And sometimes he needed a little normal to make him re-appreciate his life with Sherlock. Who could blame a guy?

Sherlock continued. "All of a sudden, instead of being a point of pride, the penis suffers a role-reversal. It is to be abhorred. It is to be avoided at all costs. God forbid another man's penis come into their sight or near them," Sherlock lectured.

John had to contribute, "When an hour before, we had all been rolling around on the ground together in shorts and cleats."

Sherlock pointed to John. "Exactly!" he said.

John scratched his head. "I don't know, Sherlock. It's a cultural thing."

Sherlock made a sound of derision. Culture, society, and their norms were not his priority ever.

John continued, warming to the topic. "But you're right, blokes do seem to be interested in talking about that particular body part more than any others. I mean, wouldn't it be strange if they referenced their nose as often as their cocks?"

"Don't be such a nosehead."

"Nose! Don't spill my drink!"

"I've got your nose right here."

"I'd stick my nose in her."

"I'd stick my nose in him."

John and Sherlock stop talking to look at each other. Then they simultaneously burst into giggles and looked away.

Sherlock recovered first.

"What about from a medical perspective?"

"What do you mean?"

What is the typical relationship that men have toward their penis in a medical setting?" Sherlock asked, clearly frustrated at the need to repeat himself even a little bit.

John raised his eyebrows in understanding.

"Ah, oh. Yes. Well," John began. "No man I have ever doctored has been happy to come to the doctor with any sort of 'penis issue,' believe me," John said, shifting his positioning in his chair.

"And yet they chose to see a male doctor about the ailment," Sherlock supplied.

John acceded. "True. Myself, I wouldn't care, male or female physician. Their competence is more important."

"But you are a bisexual man. Do you think that has an influence?" Sherlock asked quite honestly.

John shrugged. "And a doctor. And a soldier. There are a lot of factors that have led me to be a lot less self-conscious about my naked body than others."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin.

John grinned to himself.

"What about you?" John asked his partner.

"What about me?" Sherlock asked back.

"I've never heard you crack a dick joke. Is that something you have ever indulged?" John asked, his amusement in his eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slapped his hands down on the arms of his chair. Then he reached out the length of his legs to let his naked feet touch John's shins. John bounced his feet up onto his heels a few times to acknowledge the connection.

Sherlock's huff said everything that John needed to know.

"So, then what brought on this discussion?" John asked.

Sherlock stilled.

"Last week, you told me my penis was beautiful," he replied.

"So I did. And so it is. So?" John answered playfully.

"I just--never really thought about it before. Now I feel like I can't stop thinking about it," Sherlock expounded.

"Never thought of your penis?" John teased.

"Yes, John. I went the whole of my adolescence without thinking about my penis. Idiot," Sherlock retorted with a flip of his curls.

John chuckled.

"I couldn't resist," he apologized.

"After you told me that, I started to eavesdrop on typical male conversations in places like pubs, cafes, trains, and pavements. Just randomly sidling up to listen to the language," Sherlock informed John.

"And what did you learn from this experiment?" John inquired.

"Not one man uttered 'penis' with the modifier 'beautiful'. I deduced every single man in every conversation, save one, was heterosexual," Sherlock continued.

"And what did the gay man say?"

"He did not speak of his genitalia at all. I even followed the group to a second and third location. He just didn't refer to it. Why, John?"

"Huh. I don't know about that. I've made jokes in company enough times. But I save 'beautiful' for you."

Sherlock blushed just a little. John was so proud.

Sherlock recovered in record time. John was a little annoyed.

"So you would never reference my penis as beautiful in public?"

John let out a long-suffering sigh and dropped his hands to the outsides of his chair, slumping down in mock defeat.

"Would you like me to?" He asked, hoping, hoping, hoping, Sherlock would say no.

"If you truly believe it to be true, then why would you hesitate? You tell me I'm brilliant in public all the time. Is my penis not as worthy of praise as my brain?"

John scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Oh my god, Sherlock. You have to be the only human who would be offended my me _not_ referring to your, your stuff, in public. Barmy git."

"But why shouldn't I expect it? If you think it, and we all know that you have trouble not saying something that you think, then why not this?"  
John looked through the fingers covering his eyes.

"Sherlock. It's not that I don't believe it fervently. It's that it's a private thing between us. No one else is supposed to know anything about your beautiful penis but me." John punctuated his explanation with a gentle smile. He hoped Sherlock would take the smile as the sweetness it was.

He did not.

Sherlock launched himself out of his chair to better expound with his entire person. Pacing, thrashing, swanning, sweeping, and wild gesturing were all on the menu. John secretly loved the show.

"But now I can't stop thinking about this dichotomy! It's eating up valuable brain space, John!"

John kept his silence.

"So referencing the size, the length, and the skill of said appendage is all acceptable in public. But the beauty, the art, the color, texture, and responsiveness is not?"

"Yes."

Sherlock whirled around and bore down on John.

"Why not?"

John shrugged. "Because a man's own is essential to him, but only a few men are evolved enough to appreciate another's. Without competition. Without jealousy. But with desire. With reverence. And with acceptance."

Sherlock stood up straight abruptly.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock?" John reached out his hand to touch Sherlock's.

Sherlock continued to stare into the kitchen. After what felt like an eternity, his eyes fell to John's.

"Take me to bed, John."

And Sherlock dragged John to their room to think of new ways to appreciate each other's penises.


End file.
